I Believe in You
by turtledoves
Summary: AU. They don't teach you the important lessons in school. (Alternatively, Annie learns that loving isn't easy.)


**a/n [** Written for the wonderful Chelle for Caesar's Palace's Halloween Exchange. Uses the prompt rain. TW for anxiety maybe? **]**

i.

It's clumsy and inconvenient, she thinks, her lips pressed to his. But just like that, he's a suitable distance away again, and she doesn't really want to, but all she can think now is _thank God_.

She swallows, face aflame, trying to conclude the next best possible course of action, but her brain is screaming a multitude of things at her. So she steps away slightly, on autopilot, towards the door, but then the rational part of her is screaming louder than the rest, so she stops to listen. And glances up at Finnick.

He looks, she guesses, worse than she. At least that's something she knows how to handle; she knows how to be there for him.

Maybe.

Does she?

Her feet listen far better than she, and they maneuver her out the door and out the next one until she's standing outside—crouching outside—sitting outside with tears pooling in her eyes and wondering just when everything changed.

ii.

The photos on her bulletin tell a story that starts on the right and moves toward the left and occasionally jumps at odd spots. The first, in the bottom corner, is blurry and out of focus. Flowers sit highlighted in the foreground, and although they are gorgeously in bloom, the real treasure is in the background.

It starts as a water gun fight between her and a visiting friend, with her parents refereeing in lawn chairs. Then another neighborhood girl walks by with her dog, and she when she stops, interested, she's handed a water gun.

And on and on it builds up until every kid in a three-block radius is at war with one another in the Cresta's front yard with the parents hovering over them with cameras and laughter.

Finnick's in the center of it all, sitting in one of the water bins and attacking anyone who comes near. Annie, upset at this intruder taking up one of her refill stations, orders a siege against him.

A multitude of cameras click in succession—fighting children are adorable after all—including one old camera phone that comes with a five second delay and an unneeded flash and is a bit too close to the sunflower patch. It's the only one that captures Annie triumphantly snatching away Finnick's water gun, though, at the exact moment her eyes first meet his and start something new.

As the day fades away, adults bring hamburgers and buns and barbeques and condiments. But by the time night rolls around, it's only met with leftover contentment and silence.

iii.

They're standing on the same street corner, waiting for the same light to change, and if she's right—which she usually is when it comes to him—they're going to the same ice cream shop. They've gone together a thousand times before.

Over the years, she has sat in the back corner of a classroom by herself, she has convinced herself that no one will be there for her, she has been left with the darkness of her own mind, but never has she felt so alone as standing next to her best friend with nothing to say.

He taps his foot, avoids looking anywhere near her, and reaches for the crosswalk button again. The mess of friendship bracelets shifts on his wrist, and though the sky is gloomy and dark, she swears the sun pokes through.

Once, she was fiddling with a loose string when an idea struck. She flipped over boxes in her mother's office, creating a terrific clutter, before finding the old set of embroidery thread. She had five bracelets spread gloriously before her, albeit poorly made, when Finnick made the mistake of walking through the door. He wore each and every one of them home.

And never took them off.

With a smile, Annie steps closer, loops her arm gently through his, and bumps his hip with hers like she's right where she belongs.

He turns immediately, wrapping his arms firmly around her shoulders, and laughs. Gleefully, gratefully. Then he apologizes with his chin on her head when he can't look her in the eyes.

The light turns green over his shoulder, and instead of giving into reality, they cross the street with linked arms pretending nothing has changed.

iv.

Lying under the ceiling, she pretends it's made of stars. She sees dazzling constellations at first, shining and shifting to the beat of her heart, but she's always been one to favor the mystery of the night over the beauty of it. With a snap of her fingers, the darkness shrouds her, chilling and haunting like it should be. It floats into her lungs and fills her; she is immortal. She is dying.

She traces the inside of her wrist softly, then presses over her pulse point. The stars fade back into the cracked blue of her ceiling.

There's a marker on the edge of her desk, where she left it, and she pulls it down to her. Cap off, she traces the tip where her fingers were, blood pulsing wildly within her, in the shape of a heart. She fills it in slowly, perfectly, and smiles softly at her little masterpiece.

The night may be encompassing and inauspicious, but her stenciled heart is there to guide her.

v.

"I just don't want things to change." Her confession escapes her quickly, and she can see it falling through the air, thick and toxic. It's been held captive inside her for too long.

Finnick only flips nonchalantly through a novel on the floor. "Okay."

"Okay," she finalizes, as if that fixes everything. But her stomach's turning, and her hands are sweating, and her heart is doing something mad, and oh. Oh. The room shrinks around her, and she lies down on her bed, an arm draped over her eyes to block out the light. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Finnick walks over before she can summon him, knees pressing against her side, a hand closed around her upper arm.

"What's wrong?"

Everything is changing and she can't stop it and everything is changing and she can't stop it and everything is changing and.

"Not okay," she whispers. The words take her air with them, and she gasps as her lungs protest.

"What do you want?"

In through her nose, out through her mouth. Steeling herself, she lifts her arm from her eyes and sits up fast, nose to nose with Finnick. Her head is pounding, dizzy. She wants him. When her arm loops around his neck, she spies her faded heart, bites her lip. She can do anything, right?

Right.

Her eyes meet his, and after days of darting glances and watching feet, this change is nice and welcome. For a moment, they stay there, breathing and watching. She wants to do something, wants to feel something, but her lungs are getting tired of being ignored.

She gives in quickly, falling into his chest, and like always, he catches her.

vi.

This time, it's something worthy of butterflies and laughter, and she wouldn't mind if he stayed there forever.

vii.

She's supposed to be happy, she knows. She's done the calculations thrice now, and everyone around her is smiling, and she's even smiling back and making jokes and doing okay. So she's okay.

She has to be okay.

So when she slinks down, trying to get away, she's angry with herself. And when the first tear falls, she runs from it.

Layers of silver and glass warp as the mirror laughs at her. She hides against her wall, peeking out between her fingers to watch it watching her. The image she sees is small and pathetic in too big clothes with a too small heart. Her nose runs on its own accord, so she runs her sleeve across it and pauses at the black heart on her wrist.

She rubs at it, wailing, and screams when it fails to fade. Her dad knocks on the door as he's opening it, and frantically waves his hands over her, trying to decide what to do.

"Sweetheart?"

In through her mouth and out through her nose and.

No.

In through her nose and out through her mouth and in through her nose and in through her nose and in through her nose and.

"Breathe, sweetheart. I'm here."

"Make it stop, stop, _stop_."

His hands slow, figuring out their purpose, and he scoops her into his arms. She's like a child, as helpless as a child, because he's tucking her in and kissing her forehead and stroking his hand through her hair. Her mind tries to find an escape, and as her body shuts down, she wishes, accidentally, that it'll last forever.

viii.

The rain catches at her window and rolls down slowly. Though she can't help it from falling, she trails her finger along the glass anyway. Outside the window, the streets are vacant. She pauses for a moment, watching the existence of nothing, and glances down at her feet. Barefoot.

She tugs off her jacket and stiffens at the chill in the air. Without thinking twice, she slips out the door and steps onto the sidewalk.

Rivers run at the side of the road, and she steps in one. The world moves frantically, but she's standing still against the current. Raising her arms to the sky, she laughs. Annie Cresta is a force to be reckoned with, did you know?

She never did like the feeling of rain against her skin. As a child, she remembers running from windows during thunderstorms, scared not of the thunder or lightning, but of the water breaking through. Finnick would tease her for days.

Now, it takes the bounces out of her curls, smears her mascara, tears at her clothes. Reforms her like a chisel does to stone.

And when her teeth begin to chatter, she walks back home.

ix.

They spend the day in the park surrounded by children, acting as if they belong there. Annie keeps her iPhone out at all times, taking pictures and videos of Finnick as he goes from play structure to play structure.

At one point, he tries climbing onto the monkey bars and standing on them, swearing he's going to walk across as soon as he finds his balance. When he wavers, she gasps, which only makes him laugh and waver more. He doesn't move an inch until a little boy tries to copy his actions, and a frightened mother rushes forward.

"Sorry," he says, and whisks Annie away from the scene of the crime.

They're sitting on the grass, prizes from the ice cream cart in their hands, laughing at the mess their melting treats are making and kissing whenever there's a lull in conversation. Annie leans into him, getting chocolate on his shirt, and makes to stay there. Her eyes close under the afternoon sun, and she lets herself soak up bliss. Finnick weaves flowers into her hair.

She wonders how she ever believed all change was bad. If she could go back in time and tell herself one thing, it would be to not be afraid of taking chances.

Because they're beautiful.

When the day starts to fade away, Annie reaches for Finnick, even though he's already there, and clings to him.

She says, "I think I get upset because I like I who I am, and I wanna be happy about that, but then something inside me decides I shouldn't be, and I'm not sure which part of me is the real one."

"I think you're always you." Finnick squeezes her hand. "Even if you're sad."

x.

She meets her own gaze evenly, simultaneously staring the mirror in the eye. Her head is reeling from all the things she has to say, and for a moment she has to put a hand to her aching temple. There are too many things, and too little time. She needs a place to start.

"Annie," she begins, tasting her own name on her tongue. It's strange, unnatural, sends chills down her spine. In through her nose, out through her mouth. " _Annie_."

A million Annies play through her mind. A small, gentle one with a toy rabbit in her hands and a skip in her step. One with missing front teeth searching through her new dictionary. A fierce one with watercolor hands next to a frowning Finnick covered in blue. One in pink, one leaning over the edge of a bridge, one laughing on the floor, one pale in the hospital, one hiding under the bleachers.

She swallows, closes her eyes.

"You can do it," she whispers to her reflection, to the Annies. "You can do everything."

Her shoulders lift, inspired.

"I believe in you."

Pause.

"I believe in me."


End file.
